


Witches, Wraiths, and The Rest of the Wicked Bunch

by adelindschade



Category: Grimm (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen, OC, Supernatural twist, Wraith, mystery driven plot, new wesen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-26
Updated: 2020-08-31
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:34:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21566176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adelindschade/pseuds/adelindschade
Summary: When Adalind falls ill as consequence of a supposed family curse, the Grimm gang must find the cause - and cure - quickly before she meets a dreaded demise that may stem close to home.*Mention of old Scottish lore, including a Wraith, and  expanding on Adalind's family history.
Relationships: Nick Burkhardt/Adalind Schade
Comments: 9
Kudos: 93





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A) The Title is not my strong suit - so please bear with me.   
> B) If I butcher Scottish lore, my deepest apologies.   
> C) Adalind's family history is vague so I'm using the liberty to expand on it.   
> D) Part 2 will include the rest of our favorite Grimm characters, and the tags will be updated at the same time. 
> 
> *Image attached at header was found via Google search; which directed me to Pinterest. Credit to the original artist (whoever they are). It inspired the mood & the wraith. 
> 
> Please enjoy Part 1! The Follow-Up will be posted soon!

It began with migraines.

She’s always had them. Not enough to be considered chronic but common enough to the point she stocked up on Excedrin and other remedies whenever they flared up now and then. 

A quiet moment alone with a cold pack would do the trick.

But these ones were different: they persisted beyond hours, banging away at her temples to the point she felt faint. Her head was congested and heavy, weighing like a bowling ball when she held it in her hands.

And when she resorted to a much-needed nap in near pitch blackness, she found very little relief.

Nightmares plagued her, like a broken record skipping over the same track.

A clearing in the woods scarcely lit except by a bright moon; a cold, stone slab in the center encircled by upright hedges of similar rock, tall enough to meet a man’s eyes. Dread would consume all her senses when she registered the scene. Instinct would have her run far, far away but she was held hostage in her own psyche; to her absolute horror, she’d be somehow transported from outside the circle and onto the slab, helpless in her circumstance.

She knew what would come next and her blood ran cold just thinking about her would-be fate.

In a snap, she’d be awake, and free from the torment, however brief. Tears would spill down her cheeks and her heart pumped blood so furiously, she heard nothing else. Sweat laced her skin and she could still feel the lingering paralysis in her legs, unable to make any movements for a minute that seemed to stretch on infinitely.

Then the wraith appeared: first, in the form of a woman in fifteenth century garb. A flash of lightening would reveal a skeletal corpse underneath her veil. _No. No, no, no, please, no!_ Adalind’s pleas would be in vain. _Why? What do you want??_ A bony finger pointed at her and upon realizing she was the intended, Adalind shrunk.

_He wants more time!_ A gravely voice echoed. _Beware, child,_ it chided. _Blood will be spilt!_

_No! No!_ She screamed. _No!_

**Adalind…**

**Adalind…?**

**Adalind… Adalind!**

**Wake up!**

She jolted up, startling Nick enough so he nearly fell off the edge of the bed.

Her eyes fixed to the corner of the bedroom, where she first saw the silhouette. It was void but her mind insisted something had to be there, as it once had. She couldn’t break her focus, desperate to find it, and yet, petrified it’d come after her again.

Her breathing was fast and laborious, as if she was having a stroke. She felt like so. He scrambled back into his place and reached out to enveloped her, stroking her hair in a feeble attempt to soothe her.

She gripped his upper arm tightly, clinging on for dear life. His fingers descended to her neck, right above her pulse. They remained there for a minute.

“Jesus, Adalind,” he exclaimed. “Just, uh, _shh_ , alright?” he stammered in a coarse hush, pulling her under his chin while simultaneously rubbing her back in addition to combing her hair with slow fingers. “I got you,” he repeated anxiously. She felt a chaste kiss meet her temple, but she didn’t dare move her eyes to meet his. His fingers returned to her pulse. “What’s wrong?” he pressed. “Your pulse is really fast. You need to calm down or you might go into cardiac arrest.”

She was still trembling, she noticed, and crying, too.

When she felt her cheeks hot and wet, it triggered more to come, and she curled up as close as she could to him to hide her face into his chest as she wept. Her entire being shook despite his arms secured around her like a steady brace. She could hear herself grow louder, knowing any moment she’d wail like a banshee, but she couldn’t swallow the sobs down.

“Adalind, tell me what happened, please,” Nick pleaded. She could barely make out a word. “You’re scaring me.”

“I think I’m going to die,” she whimpered. Her words sounds strangled. He didn’t figure it out until the sixth or seventh time she said it.

“No, you’re not!” Nick consoled. He sounded aggravated. His hold around her tightened, shifting her slightly so she was halfway on his lap. “I’m not letting anything happen to you!”

She shook her head furiously. “You can’t stop it!”

“Adalind, you’re talking in riddles,” Nick replied. She fixed her arms around his upper body, hands clasped behind his lower-back. Her vice grip almost matched his. “Nothing is ever going to harm you, not with me here, do you understand that?”

His shirt smothered her wails and she was grateful none of the kids were woken up to see her in such distress.

“Adalind, I don’t know what’s going on,” Nick pleaded. “Let me in; tell me what happened.” He sighed when she failed to reply. “What was that thing I saw?”

Her body went cold, as if she fell through ice and plunged into the waters underneath.

“What?” She asked breathlessly.

“When you were screaming, I touched you to wake you up, and I saw something,” Nick reiterated. “Like a flash in my mind,” he described. “What was it?”

“What was what?” she asked once more, softer than ever. “What did you see?”

“A lady in black, like a cloak or something,” Nick phrased. “She didn’t have a face. What was she?”

“It – it was a wraith,” Adalind replied so low, she had to repeat it to be heard.

“A what?”

“Wraith,” she clarified with a strong nod.

“What’s a wraith?”

Adalind swallowed and reeled back, meeting his eyes.

“An omen; a really bad omen,” she started.

“Omen for what?” Nick demanded, more urgent than ever.

Adalind lowered her eyes, scarcely believing the words herself. “Death.”

“You need to calm down, please,” Adalind begged. She was still stationed on her designated side of the bed, half covered by the comforter while her upper half leaned forward a few inches off the headboard.

An hour or so had passed and their bedroom was brightly lit with both lamps on either side of the bed.

“You’re telling me,” Nick sputtered from the foot of their bed, pacing from one wall to another, “what I saw, what had you screaming bloody murder in your sleep at 2AM in the morning, is some harbinger of death? And you’re telling me to calm down?? I don’t know a damn thing about this – this – whatever this is, wesen or a ghost, who knows?? And it’s coming after you??? I’m supposed to be calm about that???”

“It’s not always – well – it’s not immediate or – ugh,” Adalind groaned, throwing her head back. “It’s not alive – it’s not wesen – but it’s a spirit that shows itself before something really, really bad happens,” she explained.

He paused mid-step, eyes narrowed. “What do you mean? Does it mean harm?”

“Depending who you ask, at least from what I was taught, this thing is the remnant of someone with ill-intentions, like a ritual gone really bad. Like a spirit so to speak but without an ounce of humanity. As penance, they are stuck in this void, without a body, doomed to live off the misery of others,” Adalind mustered but she knew it sounded vague. Nick crossed his arms, trying to process her words. “They continue to spread the misery that consumed them in their lifetime. They become like parasites, leeching off the living and spreading nothing but misfortune in their wake until they have to move on because there is nothing left of their host.”

“Or,” she mused, “sometimes they latch onto a particular person because of past-ties. Like someone with a vendetta who died before they could see it through; or has a vendetta because they died, and they blame the living person for their demise. It’s all up in the air as to why or who but the end result is almost the same: the living suffer whenever they pop up.”

“How can we get rid of it?” Nick interrogated.

“We can’t! It popped for a reason! It can’t be rid of until it sees whatever malice it intends is saw through!” Adalind exclaimed. Her anger rose and she did her best to steady herself by curling around a pillow she pulled from behind her and onto her lap.

“Why now? Why you??”

“If wish I knew that, but I don’t!” she shrieked on the final note.

The tension in his shoulders dissipated and he walked to her side of the bed, sitting on her edge within reach, and flattened his hand over her knee.

“Maybe it someone you wronged in the past?” Nick brainstormed. His voice was soft and calm, sensing she was boiling again.

“Maybe,” she grumbled, “but I only know a handful of Zauberbiest or Hexenbiest.”

“Are they only ones that can become wraiths?”

“In death, yes,” Adalind nodded. “Wraiths have a power that is only possible by what already existed in life; so practitioners would be limited to my kind, and since most of us tend to side with darker pursuits with little regard to others, all that malice is palpable enough to linger beyond death.” 

“So, our suspect pool is limited,” Nick noted. She read the ounce of relief under his breath.

“Whoever it is, is an old one,” Adalind exclaimed. “I saw… what terrified me was the stone.”

“What, by the place that looks like stone hedge?”

“Wait, what? You say that, too?” she asked, alarmed.

“Only a glimpse,” he blinked. “I saw the big stones around the clearing and the flat one in the middle.”

“It’s a druid site, for sacrifice.” She admitted. “Back in the ages where paganism was rampant, clans would look to druids for council in times of distress. Whether it’d be droughts or wars, they would seek men and women of greater power to dispel some of their concerns. These leaders believed in sacrifice, to give back to nature or the Gods to prove their devotion and hoped their sacrifice would be rewarded with good fortune.” Adalind paused, “but… sometimes these individuals sought their own advancement, too, and would make these sacrifices to enhance their power. They were ambitious to a fault. Sound familiar?” She recalled the entry about her kind in one of Grimm’s surviving grimoires.

Nick nodded as she spoke, making a mental note.

“So these druids would be…?”

“Like me – or Sean – wesen like us who can do extraordinary things with all sorts of elements,” Adalind confirmed.

“And when they die…”

“They could easily become wraiths,” she finished for him. “The one we saw tonight, they can take all sorts of forms, but their natural form is just this black void – which represents their soul, or what remains of it. Sometimes they take shape as someone else, someone familiar, and it’s purposeful, too. The one I saw tonight took the image of a woman in Tudor.”

“And what does that mean?” Nick asked, confused.

“My mother didn’t have any druid ties, but my father did, or so she said. That’s how far they can trace it back to. My great-aunt Agatha told me about one of my ancestors, a Scottish woman by the name of Ailsa who was burned at the stake for being a witch under Mary’s reign. Her sister turned her in to the authorities claiming she was the one bewitching children, who had disappeared. They claimed she was stealing their youth to remain beautiful. So, she burned to death, and her sister lived a long, privileged life as a nobleman’s wife – the same man who had originally intended to marry her sister. My great-aunt used the story as a precautionary tale to not trust family, blood or not, because of how vindictive we’re conditioned to be. That’s neither here nor there,” she waved off. “I saw Ailsa but as to why, I’m not sure.”

“It knew you’d recognize her,” Nick theorized.

“But how would she play into this? She’s just some story that’s passed down from one generation to another,” Adalind dismissed.

“I don’t believe in coincidences, Adalind,” Nick warned.

“Why would you think it’d chose to look like her out of anyone else?” Adalind proposed but her tone implied a heavy dose of cynicism.

“Let’s look at the elements here – we both saw a sacrificial slab; we saw a wraith disguised as your ancestor accused of murdering kids for vanity,” Nick counted on her fingers. “Those two seem pretty connected.”

“Are you saying we’re going to have a resurgence of kid murders?” Adalind sarcastically replied.

“It’s after you, and considering the family connection, I think the culprit is closer to home,” Nick hypothesized. “I’d start looking into that side of the family.”

“That side of the family is dead,” Adalind deadpanned.

“Who is related to you, who’s not only dead but was a gifted Hexenbiest, that would happily throw you under the bus for their own benefit?” Nick perked a brow.

She gaped, unable to muster a sound for a good minute.

“ _Are you implying my mother is haunting me??_ ” Adalind shrieked.

“If the shoe fits,” Nick countered.

“But my mother wasn’t a druid, or even related to one,” Adalind dismissed hastily.

“But your mother died prematurely, was obsessed with her own advancement, so much so, she’d run you through the mud, and now you’re living life that she may have envied: security in not so much _living a mansion_ way but more like _no one is going to chop off your head anytime soon_ way, a daughter who may or may not ascend to a throne in her far away future, a son who – Grimm or not – could be grow up to be someone of some major influence given who _we_ are…” Nick rambled. “Let’s not forget the glaring fact _you married the son of her murderer_ ,” he emphasized louder than before. 

“I thought it was accidental,” Adalind furrowed her brows in question.

“Not in her eyes,” Nick defended.

“Okay, if my mother was haunting me, she’d just show herself as is; she doesn’t need to hide behind a mask,” Adalind contradicted. “She’s scary enough. I still get heart palpitations thinking about how much she’d screw this up,” she wildly gestured to Nick, then to their room, indirectly implying the life they built together.

“It’s a possibility,” Nick reasoned. “Better than nothing. At least we can work with this. We can discount it and then we have one less suspect, which would bring us back to zero.”

“Okay then, riddle me this: why is she showing me a druid sacrificial rite? What would she gain from that? You can’t bring back the dead! That line had been crossed and you can’t undo it!” Adalind reiterated, slapping her hands together.

“But does she know that? Maybe we don’t know that!” Nick asserted. “What if it is possible? Our knowledge is restricted to word-of-mouth and what’s written in the books. What if on the other side she’s learned something else, and is using it to her advantage?”

“That’s a lot of what ifs,” Adalind discredited. “It can’t be done – or else we’d have a lot of revived Hexenbiests walking among us.”

“Captain was revived,” Nick refuted. “He was dead. His mother brought him back!”

“Using a different type of magic,” Adalind retorted. “A sacrifice _in theory_ could trade one life for another but there are so many consequences to follow. They can maybe reanimate a body temporarily like possession but it’s not sustainable and the body in question would be wounded the sacrifice would require blood – and a walking corpse which a gaping hole in the chest would not work. More so,” she snapped her fingers, “there is nothing to tie her here. Her body – well – oh, well, I did kind of drink it…”

Her face contorted, transitioning from disgust to dread.

“What – what would that imply?” Nick asked in a rush.

“Hypothetically, because part of her was consumed,” she transgressed back into disgust, expression souring at the memory, “part of her would be salvageable, and the fact I was the one who partook, and being a direct blood relative, maybe… maybe she’s looking….” She looked upwards, tying in her final reasoning in her head before speaking aloud. She met his eyes, expression stern. “Maybe there’s some warrant in what you’re saying: if she’s looking for a host, I’m the closest thing to it…”

“Okay, ignoring the fact I was deprived of “ _you were right, Nick_ ”, let’s redirect to the point where we figure out how to avoid your mother possessing you,” Nick hummed.

“I did say you had warrant,” Adalind defended.

“ _’You were right, Nick_.’” Nick repeated smugly.

“We don’t even know if it’s true; it’s just a theory!” Adalind excused.

“A theory we can prove and then I want to hear those words,” Nick vouched.

“Over my dead body,” Adalind remarked dryly.

“Interesting choice of words,” Nick deadpanned, “but that’s exactly what we’re trying to avoid.”


	2. Daddy Issues

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Adalind's migraines worsen to paralyzing lengths and Nick deduces the cause after looking into the subtler clues.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A) Title kind of gives it away. Still not my strong suit.   
> B) A little emotional, hefty on the angst, but I promise no death! and no explicit gore! And future fluff galore (in part 3)  
> C) The photo attached is mood/visions inspired, credit to Starz series Outlander. Not what I was imagining but something close to it.   
> D) Part 3 might take a day - sorry folks. Girl gotta work 12hrs.

Her migraines worsened. They came and went but when they did, she lost all focus.

Nick took noticed whenever they transpired at home, watching her vigilantly for the signs.

She felt faint when they hit her. Like a concussion, she felt so light headed that she clung to the nearest thing for some semblance of stability. Her legs nearly caved from under her and she squeezed her eyes shut in an effort to clear her mind of all distraction.

Her breathing hastened and her heart pounded against her chest. She bowed her head and held it low, hoping it would subside soon.

She didn’t know what she looked like. The first time it happened, she was at work and she must’ve fainted on the chair. Whatever time has passed went unnoticed. She continued with the day with little consequence, hoping to forget the little spell.

She should’ve told Nick. She didn’t know why she didn’t. Maybe because she thought nothing of it, a side effect of a killer migraine possibly. Maybe she was fatigued by the lack of sleep she was getting. She was exhausted and the rest certainly didn’t hurt.

The second time was witnessed by Kelly. He was distraught, of course. He was like Diana but even more anxious. Both of them were very intuitive. Diana was composed, likely coached by Nick, and directed Adalind to the couch to rest and away from hard surfaces. Kelly was sewed to her side, rubbing her arm and uttering soft reassurances – whether to her or to himself, she tried to not tread too much on it since the latter triggered her own bout of anxiety.

She didn’t like the fact she couldn’t comfort him, especially when he was so determined to comfort her. It shouldn’t have been that way. She should’ve been stronger, to at least assure him he shouldn’t worry. It wasn’t right. At least Diana was there to keep him calm when Adalind dozed off.

The third time she was making dinner. Nick was a few feet away keeping Kelly company while Diana read quietly in the next room. She could feel the sharp pain coming and she braced for impact as her head felt like it would implode.

_“Adalind…?”_

Nick was next to her in a heartbeat, but his voice sounded distant.

He held her from under her arms, leading her to the living room.

What she didn’t expect was a new onslaught of sharp pain striking her chest. It wasn’t ordinary heartburn. It burned like a torch had been held against her skin. She must’ve let out a yelp because they stopped moving and she was laid out on the floor, propped up against Nick.

She clawed at the spot, unable to shake the sharp sensation and she doubled over, shouting a curse that startled everyone near her. Her head hit his collarbone and she could feel a tear spill down the side of her cheek.

She whimpered and yelped, helpless and in agony as she fought the waves of stabbing-like pains followed by horrific flashes of her would-be demise. Cold stone marred with red; pale flesh cut open with cruel intent; a deafening shrill scream breaking the eerie silence; and the unsettling feeling of being left behind, forever bound behind the veil of death and separated from everyone she loved without warning.

She could vaguely feel Nick hold her, the way he had when she narrowly escaped her nightmare. He was saying something as she kicked and wailed but his words was deafened. She hoped he could feel how much she needed him, how much she loved him. She yearned for him to know that she would always look out for him, for their kids, and that she was so sorry – she didn’t mean to abandon them! She would fight it tooth and nail before she submitted! She wanted to yell, to speak above her own screams, that he was doing everything right and she just needed him to continue holding her, that she knew he wouldn’t let her go even after her final breath.

The thought of death was so imminent and so real, it frightened her. How easily her psyche was consumed with the reality she might be living her last few seconds. It petrified her – only for a moment – but adrenaline kicked in, and she was determined to not go quietly. She would not be easily taken. She had too much to live for. She had a family; a family she loved do dearly; a family she could not abandon.

The pain slowly subsided. Her head ached but not to the point her senses were blocked. She eased back into the present, blinking away the tears, and gasping for breaths. _Be even. In. And Out. Keep it even. Inhale. In. And Out. Deep breath and hold. Exhale._

She awoke in the same position but the time in-between was unclear. Nick was the one who filled in the blanks when she came to.

He was leaned up against the couch on the floor, cradling her upper half. His fingers combed her hair and she could feel his breath on her cheek. His forearm wrapped around her shoulder-to-shoulder, red with a visible scratch mark – her doing, she surmised regretfully. His other forearm was snug around stomach, pressing her back against his torso with not an inch to spare.

Dianna was holding Kelly in a vice-gripped hug, keeping their distance under the kitchen arch. Her eyes focused on them, unable to say anything else, but they must’ve conveyed something for her children to rush up to her, ignoring Nick’s protest.

“Give her a moment,” Nick insisted but his words fell on deaf ears.

“Hey, baby,” she cooed to her youngest. Her voice sounded strained and breathy. “Diana, sweetheart, hi.”

“Mommy!” they exclaimed. Kelly clung to her waist, Diana toppled over him to do the same.

“I’m so sorry,” she weakly mustered.

“Ssh,” Nick silenced. “Don’t worry about it, okay?”

“It’s not your fault,” Diana insisted.

“I’m glad you’re okay,” Kelly mumbled into her shirt.

They stayed like that for a couple minutes. She tried her best to not be overcome with emotion, to stay strong and stoic and not cause the kids more stress than she already did. Nick was quiet for the most part, helping to stabilize her breathing with his own. She nestled into his neck, squeezing his arm reassuringly.

He tucked her under his chin, drawing patterns into her hip with his thumb.

Diana must’ve called Sean because he arrived with impressive haste. Nick didn’t even spare him a look, just an order to take them somewhere else until notified. Seeing her condition silenced any inquiries Sean must’ve had, saving them for later in favor of scurrying the kids upstairs to their rooms to keep them distracted.

Rosalee was quick to follow, opting to leave Monroe at home to watch the triplets.

“Has this happened before?” Rosalee questioned a calm urgency.

“No,” Nick replied. “Not of this severity. She had nightmares before, woke up screaming, but never to the extent.”

“What did you feel?” Rosalee turned to her.

“It was… it hurt, like… like I was being stabbed,” Adalind described, still weak.

“She was digging at her chest,” Nick clarified. All eyes steered to arm bearing her mark. “She went pale – like white,” he added. “Her entire face changed.”

“Like a woge?” Rosalee asked.

“No, something different. She was just stark white, and her eyes had a grey film over them.”

“Was she cold?”

“Clammy,” Nick replied. “She’s still damp to the touch.”

“Did you see the wraith?” Rosalee asked her.

“No,” Adalind mustered. “Just… just me.”

“You? As in… outside looking in?”

“No, like, I was…” she exhaled, “like I was watching my own death. I didn’t… I didn’t see a face. Just my chest… It was… a lot blood.”

“Okay…” Rosalee registered. Concern was heavy on her face and she could imagine Nick shared a similar expression.

“She was sort of conscious,” Nick explained.

“What do you mean?” Rosalee knelt down closer.

“She was yelling and screaming,” he supplied.

Crying, too. She wanted to say. She could feel it on her face.

“What did she say?”

“Uhm, just,” Nick fumbled.

“I didn’t want to go, not now,” Adalind mumbled, answering on his behalf. “I think.”

“You said a lot of things,” Nick whispered close to her ear. He kissed her temple and nestled his nose atop her head.

“Nick, you have to be transparent with me,” Rosalee pleaded.

“She couldn’t leave us,” Nick answered gravely after a long, suspenseful pause, “and to not to let her go.”

_Don’t let me go, Nick. Don’t let me go._

_Don’t let me go!_

_Please – please – I can’t leave them!_

_Stop, please – please – no!_

_I’m so sorry – I don’t want to go! I didn’t want to go!_

_I love you. You must know._

_I want to go home. I want to be with them._

_Tell them I’m so sorry._

_Tell them I love them._

The words would haunt him, sounding like her last words in utter desperation. He had rocked her as she wailed, kicking and thrashing while clawing his arm raw. The image of her eyes would be hard to forget – her dark blues overcome with a sickening grey film that stared far away, lost to world. Her skin was flush and pale, as if she lost pints of blood.

When she stopped thrashing, completely crashing in his arms, his response was primary panic. Her pulse remained and her breathing, while erratic, was noticeable.

He hid his face in the nook between her shoulder and neck, his own eyes brimming with tears at the prospect she didn’t have much longer left. The way she screamed and gasped for air, fighting for her life… while he adored her spirit and bite, the sounds she uttered were too surreal for him to hear. Keeping composed was the second hardest thing to do compared to watching her suffer some awful, unknown fate.

He didn’t want the kids to see that. He blinked them away and pulled back into an eerie calm reserved for the most gruesome of murders; focusing solely on keeping her stable and worrying about the future later.

“I was seeing my own death,” Adalind declared. “I think… that’s what it was.”

“By whom? Who would want you dead?”

“Her mother,” Nick said decidedly.

“I don’t know. I didn’t see them,” she refuted. “I don’t think it was her… it felt… different.”

A heaviness could be felt, and she instinctively looked towards her left. Beyond Rosalee, a shadow lurked. Features could be made out: blonde hair, blue eyes, and a permanently set scowl.

_He wants more time,_ her mother warned.

“You said that…” she whimpered.

“Who’s she talking to?” Rosalee demanded, looking over her shoulder to see nothing. Both Adalind and Nick seemed to be transfixed on the far corner near the stairs.

_He wants more time_ , her mother repeated.

“Who… why?” Adalind felt nauseous as she asked.

_Beware, child_ , her mother stood still. 

“Who,” Adalind begged.

_Blood will split_ , her mother recited.

“No, not, not yet,” Adalind groaned.

“Who were you talking to, Adalind?” Nick pressed in panic.

“Mom,” she said. Her voice cracked and faltered.

She was gone in a blink. A grey wall with black framed pictures remained.

“She can’t hurt you,” Nick asserted, though his voice betrayed him. He knew he didn’t sound as confident as he tried to be.

“She’s not the one,” Adalind denied. “She’s not the one after me.”

“Why – why would you say that?” Rosalee inquired, taking her hand.

“She’s warning me,” Adalind repeated. “It’s warning me.”

“What is it saying?” Nick compelled.

“He wants more time,” Adalind whispered, weak in the head. She leaned back against Nick, inhaling slowly. “He wants more time...”

It dawned on her a day later – the wraith has spoke to her in third-person, bearing a warning.

_He wants more time. Beware, child. Blood will be spilt._

More time, she mused gravely. Nick had a point when he listed the reasons why her mother would be bitter – and her cut time would be top of the list.

To extend one’s life.

But the wraith didn’t say she.

_He_ wants more time.

_Beware, Child._

It addressed her as a child. Not a jest as her lack of maturity despite being a grown woman. No, it had something to do with parentage. Child. She thought of Diana and Kelly. Just children themselves but, she reflected heavily, the wraith implied neither when it addressed her. It pointed at her.

_Blood will be split._

Of course it had something to do with a sacrifice by means of an ancient rite. She was shown to be the intended after all. She wasn’t an outsider watching someone else but the fear she felt on the cold stone slab was real and palpable. There was no denying it was a dark foreshadowing, if she didn’t solve who was behind the malice.

Druid rite. Blood tie.

Immediately she thought of her father’s side – and the few she recognized from the short time she had been acquainted with them, before her parents split.

A male on her father’s side to whom she’d be in close relation, she presumed. It was a farfetched theory but something better than her mom trying to take over her life.

She passed by Nick in the hall, transfixed on the gallery her mother-wraith had been in front of.

“What are you doing?” She asked curiously.

“Where was your mother?” Nick countered.

“Uh… I guess… here?” she positioned herself close to him.

“Okay…” he stepped back to examine her. His eyes lingered past her. “When you say you saw Ailsa… you said it was a woman who was convicted of killing kids to preserve her youth.”

“Yes…?”

“And when you saw your mother, she was saying something along the lines of ‘ _he needs more time’_.”

It sounded more like a statement than a question, but she nodded anyways.

“These people are familiar to you; they show up in cryptic ways to connect certain things, lessons so to speak,” Nick rationalized.

“I suppose…”

“And this fixation on children,” Nick mused, crossing his arms as he pondered deeper on thought. “Children have a stronger connection, like you and your mother regarding our first theory…”

“Yeah but…”

He held up a finger to hold her thought.

“Maybe it doesn’t have to do with your mother…” Nick mused. His brows furrowed and he was fixated on something behind her.

“Your Dad was the one with the Druid connection, right?”

“Yeah…?”

“Okay, let’s switch places,” Nick ordered. She did as she was told. “What do you see?” he asked, when she took his place.

“Uh… what do you mean?”

“Behind me – what do you see?”

“Photos? Our wedding… Kelly in his baseball uniform… Diana’s school portrait…” she listed off.

“Behind me, right here, what do you see?” He waved over the line of framed photos to his left. On his right was an empty wall and a small side table they had put there for convenience.

“Our wedding on top; honeymoon photo by Big Ben; the bottom is of us at park with the bridge in the background…” she described but she was still unsure of his point. “You’re in the way – you’re cutting me off,” she chuckled. “You’re the only one visible from that standpoint.” 

“This is where your mother stood – the wraith stood, parallel to you,” Nick pointed. “I’m the only one in these photos that is still noticeable.”

“Yeah… so?”

“Symbolically speaking,” Nick pointed, “I think the wraith was telling us who’s behind this, by focusing what was behind it.”

“You’re speaking riddles here,” Adalind exasperated.

“Your mother’s face was purposeful; she’s standing in front of our wedding photos and obstructing you in the process,” Nick elaborated. “Who’s left, if you’re covered?”

“You…” Adalind eyed past him.

“But what do I represent?”

“A Grimm…?”

“If you’re my wife, I’m your…” Nick offered a hint.

“Husband.”

“Right – and your mother was married, too, at one point. Adalind, I know you’re going through a lot, but you can figure this out. If we eliminate one parent, who remains?”

“My dad… My dad…? MY DAD!?”


	3. Ancient Problems Require Ancient Solutions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Insert new Wesen and a hint of their role in the Grimm-verse. More so, Adalind refers to desperate measures to solve the mystery. (Short dialogue w/ Rosalee & Adalind).

Adalind was stumped.

While Nick fiddled about his theory her mom was scheming from the other side to return to the land of the living, despite the fact he was the one to suggest her father was possibly a suspect, too, Adalind went about a different direction. He was concerned about _who_ ; she sought out _why._

“Don’t Druids believe in an afterlife?” Rosalee pondered while she was present. A quick stop at the shop to borrow supplies for another protection ritual – something stronger than kitchen salt, of course.

“They do,” she replied. “Souls are immortal and pass off from one body to another, like reincarnation.”

“So why is this one so determined to sacrifice you?” Rosalee pointed.

“Penance maybe, to pay for some wrongdoing” she mused with a shrug. “Nature has this amazing talent of keeping balance. One thing about reincarnation is that you have no control over what’ll you become. For all I know, in my next life, I could become a songbird or part of a lake.”

“So, to prevent themselves from becoming one with nature, they want to prolong the inevitable by throwing you onto a stone slab for some forgiving deity?” Rosalee humored. At least someone could chuckle at the situation. She couldn’t even conjure a smile from Nick. He was nose deep in the books, determined to find a solution, and refusing to make light on the situation – confusing any joke to be dismissive of the direness.

“That’s what we think,” Adalind sighed.

“Sounds like a lot of stories my mother told me about the _aos sí_ ,” Rosalee surmised. “You know how they have their own world, shapeshift at will, and can become one with the elements? I suppose the Druids took after them in those aspects.”

“They aren’t actually what we call friends,” Adalind laughed softly. “Hexenbiests, Zauberbiests, the whole category, we generally don’t get along with the Fae and vice-versa. It’s a primal rivalry. The Druids aspired to be like them, but the reverence was never mutual. They looked down on anyone who wasn’t part of their world – and punished anyone who tried to be. Like a weird Pedigree thing.”

It was a cliché lightbulb moment for the blonde, pausing in her step as she mused over the revelation.

Rosalee called out to her, noticing the off-putting silence right away.

“The Druids revered them,” Adalind repeated, softer, “but they feared just as much.”

“Huh?” Rosalee beckoned.

“They possessed a greater connection to the otherworld, able to bypass time as we know it,” Adalind continued to muse, pulling as much knowledge as she could from her memory. “They rarely interacted with mortals but when they did, they disguised themselves to observe them, play with them like a cat would a mouse…”

“Adalind,” Rosalee called again.

Adalind froze when she faced her friend, a look of uncertainty striking her features. “This is going to be crazy but,” she said, waving a small jar of herbs, “I think I figured out how to figure this out.”

“What – huh – what do you mean?” Rosalee uttered, unable to wrap her head around it.

“To challenge a being older than time, you need to get to their roots,” Adalind asserted with a grin.

“If you’re saying what I think you are,” Rosalee veered back, “Adalind… don’t tell me you’re suggesting we consult a Fae to solve this.”

“It’s risky!” Adalind raised her hands in defense. “I know – but it’s a good bet. Maybe our best bet yet.”

“There’s usually a price to pay!” Rosalee objected.

“There is always a price to pay. It’s how everything balances out. Most of my work, in court or off, usually is contract of some sort. It’s the natural way. Fae’s were the first ones to really implement the method.”

“And how are you going to find the means?” Rosalee proposed skeptically. “Let alone find one! They have their own…? What would you call it, a realm? I don’t know! Neither of us can reach it!”

“They are curious creatures,” Adalind grinned. “They can’t resist.”

“Yay, let’s go find a Fae!” Rosalee cheered sarcastically. “What can go wrong?”

“I can save us the time – I already know one, sort of.”

“Sort of?!” Rosalee shrieked. “How do you know a Fae? Why are you in contact with a Fae?”

“Halfling, actually. Her grandfather served as a councilman in St. Paul.”

“Minnesota?! That St. Paul?”

“Sanctuary City, St. Paul? Yeah.”

“Don’t tell Monroe this – he’ll freak out,” Rosalee held her hand out as if to silence her. She then combed her hair back nervously, beginning to pace. “The things they did during Prohibition… That’s dangerous, Adalind. Why would you want to affiliate with that?”

“Because they have eyes and ears everywhere, and they like to have their fingers in all the pies,” Adalind pointed in the air. “There is a good chance they know more about this than any of us ever will,” she emphasized with a quick stir of the finger. “She owes me a favor and I wasn’t going to act on it because she tends to move at her own pace, and who knows, I’ll probably be six feet under before she even starts on it, but if there is one thing about the Fae I can count on, they hate being indebted to anyone – and the sooner they can wash their hands of the debt, the better.”

“What about Nick?” Rosalee challenged, “or Kelly? Diana or Renard? If you cast this web, everyone is going to get ensnared.”

Adalind nodded slowly, feeling the weight of Rosalee’s words as a daunting reality. “The Fae are less enamored with the Royals. They don’t distinguish them as any differently from you or me.”

“That’s not what I heard,” Rosalee refuted. “The War of Roses, The Archduke, these great political coups, _all_ of which the Fae have had a hand in! Let’s not forget the ban in St. Paul. Renard or even the likes of him wouldn’t be able to step foot inside the city borders without them making an example out of him. The hatred they have for a Royal is well-known. But Nick… if they hate the Royals, what do you think they’ll do to a _Grimm?_ ”

“Historically speaking, Grimms tended to be a natural pest-deterrent. The Fae had no qualms about a Grimm getting rid of, well, the likes of us out of their way,” Adalind answered disgruntledly.

“You think a Grimm would be able to step foot inside St. Paul?” Rosalee refuted, crossing her arms. “I know the likes of you wouldn’t either! They’d burn you into nothing but a pile of ash before you could cross the Mississippi.”

“The Council is notoriously extreme – but they are diverse. One of them has to know something from centuries of networking. I’m not asking them directly! I’m asking her to ask on my behalf, on the low,” Adalind defended. “I could ask the one here in the Portland, but I don’t want to risk it.”

“It will get back to them,” Rosalee warned. “From Boston, to Louisville, St. Paul to Portland… they are all connected! These big, old regimes that puppeteer the politics from the shadows – how can you not think of the consequences?”

“Speaking of the Portland council – you’d think they do something about Nick if he was a problem,” Adalind retorted.

“Portland isn’t as established as Boston or St. Paul. You’re talking about Old Blood. Lines that come from legacies that go farther than ours do. Celtic times. Before that! You’re either dealing with the _aos sí_ that have resided over St. Paul since the latter half-century or a bunch of bitter Kobolds who...”

“Enough, Rosalee! I get it – it dangerous – but I’d rather deal with them, because I know what to expect, than deal with whoever has it out for me. At least I can ask a favor to find out who is behind it and figure out the proper protection spell to get them off my back.”

“It’s a bad idea but its your call,” Rosalee dismissed. “Hypothetically, how’d you go about conjuring this Fae, err, Halfling?”

“Easy. I have her phone number.”

_“Really??”_

“No! We need a clearing with a distinct circle.”


	4. Ancient Rivals and Hierarchy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A flashback to when it all went wrong...  
> and maybe some redeeming qualities for Catherine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My attempt to rekindle an old idea of mine - starting fresh by jumping back in time - before resuming the previous time period. I just needed to get my mind and fingers to conjure a creative medium to get the train started. 
> 
> Also, I like to work with the idea of backstories and maybe Catherine's motives in the beginning weren't so callous..? A girl could be optimistic.

_Minneapolis, 1989._

“Mommy, it’s cold.”

The cherry cheeked toddler clung to her mother as they briskly walked into the café. It was much warmer than the plummeting temperatures iconic to the tundra state.

Men and women alike donning _North Stars_ jerseys traipsed outside, hollering in drunken celebration over what Catherine would assume had been a victory. They didn’t care the wind was blistering or the barreling snow was blinding.

Cars trickled passed, honking impatiently as the light flicked green but the parallel traffic was so congested, only people themselves could wiggled between the metal contraptions.

Much like the pair, they were fitted with layers. Thick hats and muffins accompanied by tightly laced boots to combat the cold and slippery ground. They didn’t look any different from the locals.

“Hide your face, sweetheart,” Catherine pleaded. She pulled the thick, woolen scarf higher to conceal Adalind’s nose. The wind began to howl, pushing the pair back. The gust was vicious and Catherine spun to shield her daughter from the bitter assault.

“Crazy weather, huh?”

The feminine voice was addressing them. Catherine looked up to see a smiling brunette.

There was an aloof friendliness that didn’t quite meet her hazel eyes. Thick brown curls were capped under a fuzzy, black earmuffs that didn’t quite match her bold ski jacket. Her smile was tight lipped and her skin was almost as white as the snow itself.

Most of the locals looked similar in style. There wasn’t much skin to show and if there was, it was wind-bitten beyond repair. The winter was rough and the sun was scarce.

“I’m not sure how you can live here,” replied Catherine meekly. She was from Iowa where the winter was just as rough but the busy city seemed to worsen conditions. Portland at least as mellow winters in comparison. She’d take the onslaught of rain over ice-and-hypothermic temperatures.

There was a weird frequency that pierced her senses, like a ringing in her ear or a pressure that made them pop. No woge necessary – their frequencies were louder than static on an aged TV. Catherine wasn’t sure how she was perceived by the woman but the physical ailments Catherine suffered at her mere presence was validation enough.

That was confirmation enough for the stranger to acknowledge Catherine, too.

“I’ll get you and the little one something to drink. It’s terribly cold,” she assured, guiding her inside.

Catherine noted how tall she was compared to the petite blonde. 5’10 maybe. She carried herself with a high head. Her features were worn but she looked tender and mature.

It wasn’t until they paddled inside did Catherine spy the small child beside her. The woman was the one to address.

“Maya, don’t doddle, hurry up,” she urged sternly.

The child itself looked like a bundled doll. Her dark hair matched the woman’s, spiraling over her shoulders while the rest was concealed by a red wool hat that looked homemade – as did the bright purple doily pinned to its left.

“You’re daughter?” Catherine asked, surprised.

“Granddaughter,” the woman replied with a soft nod. “My daughter is at work and I don’t mind looking after her.”

“She’s beautiful,” Catherine complimented, taking in her face. What was striking was her large, navy blue eyes that had a distinct black ring around them. She looked up at Catherine, unspeaking, but her eyes spoke volumes.

The woman was covert about analyzing Catherine. Her granddaughter didn’t inherit or learn to be as subtle. She crinkled her narrow nose and turned away towards the fire, disinterested. In her hands, a plush animal that resembled a black Labrador.

What was telling was the fact woman didn’t bother to correct her. No reprimanding tap on the hand or soft instruction to greet her. _The woman was enforcing boundaries,_ Catherine identified.

After all, this was a courtesy call that Catherine was lucky to have. This woman had no obligation to assist Catherine, let alone give her granddaughter introductions.

“Thank you for seeing me,” Catherine hastily said before her luck could spoil.

“Sit down,” the woman insisted in the same voice she reproached her granddaughter. Catherine obliged obediently. She tucked Adalind onto her lap, not trusting her to stay still on the empty chair beside her.

Maya was older by a few years and independent by nature. She claimed her seat without prompting, fixing her dog atop the counter.

“I want hot chocolate,” Maya asserted.

“ _Please_ ,” her grandmother reminded tersely.

She huffed and looked her grandmother square in the eye. “Can we get hot chocolate, please?”

“On it, Mrs. Kohler. Would you like extra marshmallows, Maya?” a teenaged waitress intercepted, bowing low to meet the girl’s eyes.

“Yes!” she gleefully replied.

“ _Please_ ,” Mrs. Kohler reminded again, fixing a pointed look her way.

“Thank you!” Maya clapped, showcasing a wide smile.

“Oh, get that out of your hair,” her grandmother scolded when she undid her hat. A side pony was plain to see, an eyesore in her grandmother’s eyes. “The things your mother puts on you…” she huffed as she combed Maya’s hair down with long, red polished fingers. “Has anyone told you how cute you look in that peacoat?” she amended, fixing the girl’s grey collar.

Maya looked more polished, more like her grandmother, after she smoothed her hair down and parted it to one side more than the other. Her face was flushed and she winced when her grandmother pinched both cheeks, brightening them to a rosy hue similar to Adalind’s.

“There’s my cute girl!” Mrs. Kohler cooed. “None of that nonsense on my watch.”

“What’s your doggy’s name?” Catherine interjected sweetly, trying to earn the girl’s favor. She didn’t miss Mrs. Kohler’s reproachful look.

“Goliath,” Maya answered, patting the dog’s head.

“She loves animals,” Mrs. Kohler answered with disdain. “She and her mother have a fondness for those creatures.” She intertwined her hands and huffed. She bent her head lower to meet Maya’s eyes. “You’ll grow out of it, right? Animals are messy and they die.”

Maya glared at her grandmother. “Gramma! No!”

“Maya, drop the tone.”

“Stop being mean. Goliath is nice.”

“Goliath is just a thing. You’ll forget about him eventually.” Her tone was cool and unattached.

At least Catherine and Mrs. Kohler could agree on one thing: animals were an unwanted household presence.

Maya pouted and held Goliath protectively in her arms, guarding him from her grandmother’s callousness.

“Her first word was puppy,” Mrs. Kohler said disgruntledly. “She takes after my father. He was a farmer in St. Cloud. He loved those animals. Horses, goats, sheep, pigs. Disgusting animals. They stink.”

Maybe they could bond over common ground despite the age difference.

“I grew up on a farm, too,” Catherine confided. “My dad was a simple-minded man. He had acres of corn he used to plow. It was mundane work.”

“I moved to St. Paul during the Great Depression. I met my husband here. His father-”

“His father was one of O’Connor’s guys,” Catherine deafly finished on her behalf. Mrs. Kohler’s reputation preceded her. Mrs. Kohler didn’t appreciate the interruption but Catherine had to be about business. Time was of the essence. “Making Maya his…”

“Great granddaughter, yes, but we don’t want to associate with that reputation. Maya has enough trouble on her plate considering what her father is.”

It was unusual for Mrs. Kohler to be so transparent about Maya. Her kind tended to be private about their business.

“I’m just fortunate she looks like us and not her negro father,” Mrs. Kohler sighed in relief. “We’re blessed she takes after her mother, after us. It’ll already be difficult for her to be accepted in our world considering she’s tarnished by mortality but at least she has her fair looks. We can be thankful for that,” Mrs. Kohler cooed, cupping her chin.

Catherine swallowed painfully, trying to ignore the disgusting display of racism.

“The thing about halflings and changelings is that can mend themselves to look a certain way,” Mrs. Kohler gloated. “Day by day she begins to take after me. She used to have her father’s hair but that changed some time ago. Good ridden. It was a pain to comb. Now she has these beautiful, brown ringlets. They have a little sun in them, don’t you see? Her mother may have spoiled her looks and reputation but we have hope for you yet, Maya!”

Mrs. Kohler’s eyes fixed upon Adalind, analyzing the shy child.

“A shame,” Mrs. Kohler continued in disdain. “If she wasn’t marked by mortality or your brand of magic, she would’ve been favored in our kind of society.”

Catherine bit back her reply to the backhanded compliment.

“That’s why I came here, to ask for your help, so she’s not exploited by her father,” Catherine pleaded.

“The First-Born rule,” Mrs. Kohler surmised grimly. “Pity on the poor thing,” she added with some semblance of sympathy. “She’s too small to be sacrificed. It’s a savage practice. Even we don’t stoop to such means.”

Mortality wasn’t an ailment they’d commonly face either, Catherine mentally retorted. Maya was fortunate that she’d age much slower than everyone around her, while her mother or grandmother would scarcely age a day unless they opted to look a certain way. Master manipulators. Professional illusionists. Everything the Fae excelled at.

“I suppose her chances are far better than if she were a boy. I do not understand the prize of a male heir nor their value at the Alter,” the elder harrumphed. “I have two myself. I’d happily rid myself of them given the grief they caused me,” Mrs. Kohler attempted to humor. “Though I love them dearly. It’s foolish to believe the first-born son bears more value than the first born in general. The ancient hierarchy is so jaded.”

“He wanted one but I was given her instead,” Catherine forced a smile. He wasn’t happy with her birth. He was reluctant to be a father regardless. The possibility of a boy was more endearing. At least she could provide a child. His wife was barren. Perhaps that’s the reason he lingered for four years, hoping another would come along.

“Let’s hope she doesn’t give birth to a son, or else she’ll become useless in his endeavors,” Mrs. Kohler grimly reminded. “Voided by her own offspring.”

Catherine wasn’t thinking that far ahead.

“Her father has been grooming her for the ritual after he received his diagnosis,” Catherine explained as a new wave of dread took over her.

“I believe he has yet to see a doctor,” Mrs. Kohler rebuffed. They knew things – as to how, was beyond Catherine, but it was known that their senses were too astute for anyone to believe the Fae ignorant.

“Not immediately. He’s obsessed with a vision he received – one where’s dying. He’s certain there’s no other option. I can’t have my daughter sacrificed for something that hasn’t happened yet!”

“ Ah, those meddling fortune tellers,” Mrs. Kohler condescendingly mislabeled. “Well, I suppose a little meddling on my part won’t cause much harm except to his plans. It’d be a shame something so pretty could be spoiled for something so… frivolous as maintaining such a worthless existence.”

There it was – another reminder Mrs. Kohler believed herself – her kind – to be superior to her, to anyone not inclusive to their secret world. Catherine was willing to tolerate the abuse if it meant Adalind would live another day.

“Thank you,” Catherine exhaled.

“I think very little of my daughter’s choice of friends and you are no different. However, I will do this favor for her sake. Children have no part in such ridiculous schemes,” she assured, eyeing Adalind.

It was through her friendship with Willa that Catherine couldn’t believe her luck. A full fledge Fae integrating herself with common wesen society. A free spirited, beautiful blonde much like herself who made the most of parties. They had set aside old prejudices and actually crafted a bond, disregarding the advice of disapproving elders. The networking proved to be vastly beneficial in her time of need.

When Catherine announced her pregnancy, it was only a few years after Willa announced her own. Catherine had mingled with a married man of old noble blood. She was elevating her station, even if she wasn’t legally acknowledged. Willa had procreated with a ‘ _common trash’_ as Catherine heard Willa mimic Mrs. Kohler say at some point.

Though, there was some truth in her mother’s words as Willa’s beau proved to be volatile. Had O’Connor not intervened, Willa would’ve been on the painful end of an iron rod, and instead of he, it would be she who’d end up a pile of ash.

Maya was the only redeeming gift from that turbulent period. As Adalind was Catherine’s only salvation in her affair.

“Hot chocolate, Miss. Kennon.”

The joy between waitress and child was short lived as the former was stunned silent upon receiving a glare from Mrs. Kohler so icy, it’d rival the snowstorm.

“Her name will be Kohler. None of this Kennon non-sense. Isn’t that right, Maya?” Mrs. Kohler declared vehemently.

“My apologies,” the waitress stammered. “I was informed by Mrs. Kennon…”

“Willa doesn’t know any better. Maya is like us. The marriage isn’t even legal,” the matriarch scoffed. “She is a Kohler until she marries into a proper family.”

“My apologies… Enjoy your coco, _Miss. Kohler_. I put in some peppermint. Your favorite,” she charmed the girl.

“Thank you!” Maya sang sweetly, sipping the warm mug.

“Be careful! It’s hot!” The waitress warned.

“I don’t mind,” she giggled. Why would she? Elements wouldn’t hurt them. They _thrived_ on fire. They basically built their empire on it. They staked their reign of fear on it.

“Speaking of names, I’ll need one,” Mrs. Kohler insisted, addressing Catherine. “Her father’s name.”

Fae had a fixed fascination on names. They rarely gave out theirs. Having names meant power. It meant having leverage and the ability to command at will. It wouldn’t be uncommon for them to lie or spin variations of their name to protect their livelihoods.

Was Mrs. Kohler even a Kohler? O’Connor had adopted an Irish Immigrant’s name upon his ascension into high St. Paulite society, a happy consequence of making friends with people who’d open the door for him to become Chief of Police. His name before notoriety would remain a mystery. 

Kohler was a common German name. Catherine suspected it came from the family in which the sprites had cohabitated. Kobolds were a particular breed of secret helpers – farm hands who kept stables in pristine shape overnight; helped stock the kitchen out of sight; and so forth. They could be calamitous for another who’d discover their existence or rebuffed their good deeds.

‘ _Good deeds_ ’ usually meant strings attached.

“Time is of the essence,” Mrs. Kohler reminded sternly. “What is there to be afraid of? I’m not frightened of some paranoid Zauberbiest. What is he going to do to _me_?” she mocked.

“Henry,” she said.

“Daddy?” Adalind spoke up after a long session of silence. Her head perked up in interest. She hadn’t seen him in weeks. Catherine had just conditioned her to drop the topic.

“Last name?”

“McDougall.”

“Third? Fourth? Fifth…? That’s an old family name, Catherine.”

“Henry Arthur McDougall, the third,” Catherine said as she simultaneously wrote down his name on a napkin. She had rifled through her purse for a pen, bitterly scribbling his name in slanted letters as she struggled to balance Adalind on her other arm. “What else do you need to know?”

“Day of birth? Last known location? Closest relative?”

“Done, done, his mother and wife – there all, yours,” Catherine voluntary offered.

“And your daughter’s name and birth. For protection of course,” Mrs. Kohler explained.

“Adalind Christine Schade, April 14th,1985,” Catherine sniffed. “She lives in Portland, with me.”

“That will change. Location is just as important to us as it is to the likes of him,” Mrs. Kohler warned. “For your daughter’s safety, she needs to be out of sight. Out of reach,” she amended. “He will reach her as best as he can. The less he knows the better.”

“How does that work? If he can’t find her, he can’t hurt her, right?”

“Druids are crafty little bastards. They share the same blood. He will try to breach her mind. She is young and impressionable. They can create a… convincing narrative. Someone like her will easily fall for it. If he can convince her on the other plane, he will have complete control of her. But to do so,” Mrs. Kohler explained, “he’ll need something to start with. So long she’s in Portland, he has a lead.”

“Where should we go?”

“Where would he not suspect?”

Henry had believed her false narrative that she was a displaced orphan, a woman of means who lost her parents young. There was some truth to it. Her mother skipped out on the family when she was too young to remember and her father married a new woman when she was hit double digits, cutting the bond between father-and-daughter when his attentions split. She refused to accept Corinne as a mother figure, further dividing the pair.

After sixteen, she stole the family truck to drive herself to the nearest airport and forged herself a new backstory within those hours. She was Catherine Schade, a refined young woman who vaguely remembered her absent but established parents. She refused to mention her Midwest roots. She fabricated a new origin story: she was California born and a lover of wine. The vineyards were her playground growing up. A state too vast to really check her background.

She had met Willa there on the coast, a San Diego State student who loved the weather, the people, and more importantly, the easygoing college boys. Willa believed her wholeheartedly. Willa also embellished her own origins, a girl from a well to do family but with no names dropped. A strict father who ran high in the police department but ruled the household with an iron fist. A state with shit weather – her words – and few prospects.

It was only when Willa became intoxicated did Willa indulged her new friend with the truth. She was the granddaughter of the infamous St. Paul Police of Chief, John “Joseph” O’Connor. Not just the Irish Immigrant who implemented the Layover Agreement but the Fae who adopted his identity and amended his policies to fit his anti-wesen agenda.

Catherine couldn’t believe her luck.

“My hometown. He doesn’t know where I’m really from,” Catherine admitted.

“Go there. Hide her there. Is there anyone you trust? Someone you can leave her with?”

“Why would I leave her?” Catherine demanded, tightening her hold on her daughter.

“Because it’s easier to find her if he can find you,” Mrs. Kohler assured harshly.

Catherine moistened her lip, wordless. She couldn’t disagree with her logic.

My father, Catherine thought. Though there was resentment between them, his love with unconditional, and he’d love the granddaughter he hadn’t yet met. She knew it. Corinne, too. Corinne was so open with her. She’d share the same acceptance for Adalind.

“Yes, there are people I can trust,” she choked. She’d have to swallow her pride but isn’t that what she was doing now? She could do it again for the same reason she was submitting herself to Mrs. Kohler’s condescending attitude.

“Until he goes away, you will have to keep your distance, too,” Mrs. Kohler smiled grimly.


End file.
